Raising Hell
by brkstrtrcr
Summary: AU, 1x2. Racing in Nevada is both lucrative and dangerous. Hiirou gets in over his head when his motorcycle catches the eye of two competing garages. Reworking of an incomplete story from 2005.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Warning: Violence, language, possible mild religious themes, sexual situations

Notes: This story was originally published under an old penname as a collaboration with Sanyu-kumiko. I found the first nine chapters in a box in my closet while unpacking during winter break and decided to revise/retool it. I'm posting it now as my own work, with consideration to Sanyu for her assistance with it back in 2005. This is my first foray back into the world of Gundam Wing, so pardon me if I sound a little rusty.

**Raising Hell: Prologue**

brkstrtrcr

January 2009

To say the place was cliche would have been an understatement.

Hiirou glanced around at the oriental dragons glaring at him from tacky pastel wallpaper and low, chipped black lacquer furniture that might have been older than some of his college professors. He gave an imperceptible sigh. He supposed that the setting didn't really matter so long as the food was up to par, and he tried to convince himself of that as he sulked inside, all the while ignoring the tone-deaf squawking of what he guessed was Chinese pop music.

The place was deserted and that couldn't have been a good sign. Shuffling past an oddly-placed booth the Japanese youth made his way towards the main counter. He peered over skeptically, squinting past the antiquated cash register, a set of beaded doorway curtains, and a thick layer of steam and into the kitchen.

"Hello?" he called.

A clatter of pots and pans was Hiirou's response, followed shortly by a shout. "One second, buddy." There was a low muttering in a foreign language, and the situation was almost comical as a harried-looking young man shoved his way through the curtains, raking a hand through his hair. "What can I get for you?"

Definitely Chinese. Hiirou smirked at the accent-laced voice and the irritated tone. "I need food," he chuckled,"but you seem a little preoccupied."

The owner--he assumed--rolled his eyes, practically seething. "Look, guy. My delivery boy called out for the seventh time in as many days, we just fired our last cook, and I have to pick up my kids from school in..." The frustrated youth glanced at his watch and groaned. "Ten minutes ago." He ran his hand through his shoulder-length black hair in what Hiirou guessed was a stress habit and sighed defeatedly. "If you need something, make it quick. Your stomach is of no consequence to me."

Hiirou arched an eyebrow, clasping his hands on the counter thoughtfully. This place held more promise than he'd originally anticipated. He was in need of employment, and this young man could obviously use reliable assistance. How hard could it be to cook rice? "I've got a better idea," he said. "Why don't you give me that apron and I'll cover you while you get your kids."

The Chinese youth blinked owlishly at him. "Are you serious?" Hiirou nodded, extending a hand. His counterpart smiled, a little too excitedly, and fumbled frantically with the ties to his apron, handing it over. "Excellent! You're hired!"

He began rushing to the door, patting himself down presumably for his car keys, and paused. "Hey, wait a minute. Do you even know how to cook?"

Hiirou gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "I can make ramen and easy-mac."

Rolling his eyes, the darker-haired young man gave him a wry snort and was out the door, shouting a hurried, "Don't burn down my shop!" Hiirou heard the distinct sound of tires screeching over gravel moments later.

As he shuffled into the kitchen, he absently hoped that the man didn't drive like that with his kids in the car.

Before anyone corrects my spelling of 01's name—translated directly out of the katakana for his name, Heero is actually spelled "Hiirou." That's how I prefer to spell it. Sue me.


	2. RH 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Warning: Violence, language, possible mild religious themes, sexual situations

Notes: Feedback is always appreciated.

**Raising Hell 1**

brkstrtrcr

January 2009

"Hiirou, I'm going to need you to run these to Main Street, okay?" Prussian eyes glanced up from the porcelain tiles of the Chang's kitchen floor to meet the much darker, almond-shaped pair that belonged to Wufei's wife.

He'd worked for the family for almost two weeks now, and it was the best job he could have asked for given his current circumstances. They paid well and the work wasn't too difficult, but above all of that they were genuinely good people; although he was only twenty years old he knew that a high level of moral standard was hard to come by these days.

He snatched the bag off of the counter and his helmet from beside the register, calling out a departing greeting in broken Chinese as he ducked out of the front door. Wufei's six year old twin girls had leapt on the opportunity to teach him their language. They found it entertaining to be able to teach a 'grownup' anything, and his evenings were now spent sitting on a small kid's chair in their room, reciting back Chinese vocabulary words to them. Hiirou smirked at the mental image that thought provided and climbed onto his motorcycle.

His bike stood on the side of the small parking lot, gleaming in the harsh sunlight of a typical Thursday afternoon in the small desert town. It was really the only thing that he had anymore. Since he'd had to leave to college...

_Better not think about that._

Hiirou tugged his helmet on, secured his order to the back of the bike, and was two seconds away from starting the engine when Wufei came running out the side door in a hurry. "Yui, wait a second! That's the wrong address!" Wufei handed him a new delivery slip and muttered under his breath, something about 'incompetent women,' but Hiirou saw him glance over his shoulder to ensure that his wife was nowhere in sight. Or arm's reach. Hiirou smirked.

The Japanese youth arched an eyebrow at the hastily-scribbled instructions and his employer clarified. "Two blocks down. The garage."

Hiirou nodded, revving his engine, and mentally balked as he pulled out of the parking lot. He'd driven by that dump more than once, and he wasn't too fond of the place. It was an eyesore. The yard was a sprawling wasteland of half-crushed vehicles and engines, and the large, not-so-friendly rottweilers the owners kept out front were more than a little discouraging to both vandals and delivery people alike.

He was at the large rolling chain-link gates in five minutes, and he lingered on the street for a moment longer than necessary. "Work is work, I guess," he muttered as he pulled in, and glanced around with increasing paranoia as he realized that he couldn't see the hellhounds anywhere.

Maybe he had gotten lucky and the owners had locked them up out back? Unlikely, but the idea was enough to motivate him further into the bowels of the place.

The huge retractable doors to the main garage were open, so he decided to scope the place out. Taking his order with him, he made a cautious approach but found nothing aside from scrapped cars and random parts littering the floor. "Delivery," he called out, half-hoping no one would answer and he could then make an expeditious retreat.

There was a loud clatter of metal on cement, followed shortly by what sounded like "Fuck!", and then tires rolling. A young man approximately his own height and build came out from under an old station wagon clutching his head and muttering.

"Jesus H. Christ, buddy! You scared the shit out of me!"

Hiirou normally would have retaliated with a smart-assed comment, but he was a little taken aback by the other youth's appearance. The mechanic--he supposed one would call him that--was gorgeous. He really couldn't conjure up another word to describe the guy. If he looked past the plain navy jumpsuit and random grease smears across his face, he was pretty damned attractive. Dark blue-violet eyes, fair skin, and when the mechanic cocked his head to the side in a curious expression Hiirou saw a three foot rope of raided chestnut-brown hair trailing behind him. The freckles across the bridge of his nose seemed inexplicably enticing. That was mildly disturbing.

"Yo, you lost?" Even his voice was pleasant, and it was probably that which shook Hiirou from his eye-rape of the other boy. The last guy that he'd harbored these kinds of thoughts for had ruined him, and he'd be damned before he'd give someone else that opportunity. That last thought almost saddened him, because he realized that if he wanted one, a friendship with this boy--the name tag embroidered to his shirt read 'Maxwell'--was doomed from the start. "Buddy, you look lost."

And here he was, standing in the middle of this guy's garage, staring like a retarded man. "I have a delivery for you. From next door." His own voice sounded dead, monotonous. _Way to go, Yui. Why not just tell him you're autistic?_

"Oh. That's cool. Just throw it on the workbench over there." The brunette pointed absently to somewhere on his left and walked back to his project, flipping his braid over one shoulder and sliding back under the car.

Hiirou shook himself out of his mechanic-induced stupor and looked down at the delivery slip still clenched in his fist. "You owe me eight dollars, Mr. Maxwell," he frowned.

The mechanic chuckled, out-of-sight, and waved Hiirou off from under the station wagon. "Call me Duo, and just put it on my tab."

Hiirou arched an eyebrow, snorting. "Your _tab_?"

A clanking of rusty parts nearly deafened him, and Duo cackled gleefully. Hiirou almost smiled at the sound of it and then blinked. What the hell was wrong with him? "Oh, sure. Meiran won't mind. Her car's due in for an inspection this month, buddy."

Hiirou paused for a moment, prepared to retort, and then sighed. "Listen, _buddy_. I'm not leaving here until you pay me, so just give me the money so I can get back to work."

There was a snort from the back of the garage, and Duo popped up from behind the station wagon, disbelief written across handsome features. "Are you kiddin' me?"

Hiirou put on his best no-nonsense expression and waited. No way would he compromise his job for some hot mechanic. Regardless of just how ridiculously fuckable the other man looked propped up on his elbows on the floor of his garage, giving Hiirou a hopeful pouting look. Hiirou crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

Duo visibly deflated. " You're serious, huh? Fine, fine..." The mechanic fumbled around in his pockets for a second, and then a cordless phone came flying across the garage.

The Japanese youth caught it deftly enough, only to realize that it was all ready dialed and ringing, and he heard Meiran pick up on the other end. "Meiran, the guy that you sent me out to is claiming something about a tab?" He watched the young man make an exasperated face and then sink down to the floor to resume his work. Hiirou's eyes followed every move of the braided youth's slender arms as he struggled with a breaker bar under the car.

_"Yeah, just let it go. There's a log that we keep for him under the register. When you get back just throw the receipt in there. Duo works on our car when we need it fixed, and he keeps an eye on the girls for us from time to time."_

Hiirou's eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he snorted. "This is the great mechanic that Wufei's been talking about?"

Meiran laughed at the obvious disbelief in his voice. _"Yes. Duo can fix anything. You should let him take a look at your motorcycle sometime."_

The very idea of someone touching his cycle was enough to make Hiirou shudder. "Thanks. I'll be back in a few minutes." He hung up and looked over to find a disgruntled young grease monkey glaring at him.

"Told you so," Duo muttered. It was an immature comment, but it almost got a smile out of the Japanese youth again. _Not good._ Instead he threw the phone at the boy, who grinned as he caught it. "What'd ya say your name was? This service is terrible. I'm gonna have to talk to 'Fei about the riffraff he's hiring," he drawled good-naturedly.

Hiirou snorted and walked out of the garage. The sunlight hit him like a liquid wave of bright heat and he threw his helmet on as he sat down on his bike. "I didn't." It was more than a little foolhardy to spar verbally with someone who obviously excelled at it, but Hiirou was finding the mechanic's wit and charm very alluring.

Duo raised an eyebrow and waited patiently, hands planted on his slim hips. After a few moments of his unsettling scrutiny the delivery boy finally frowned and answered.

"It's Hiirou." He saw the other youth's full lips twitch in response, and he could have sworn that his jeans suddenly felt tighter. It made him uncomfortable, but he didn't mind for some bizarre reason. He really needed to get the hell out of here before he did something stupid. Hiirou hid his discomfort with an annoyed growl. "Any snide comments about my name and I'll gut you with a Craftsman."

The mechanic's hands were off of his hips and in the air in what could have been record time. "Whoa, hold your horses, there, buddy! I've got no problems with Asians." He snickered. "Hell, Eggroll Chang is one of my best friends."

Hiirou turned away from the boy's grin with a shake of his head and turned his key in the ignition. This guy was odd. "Hey! Wait up! I owe you a tip," the mechanic said abruptly. He turned back to watch Duo disappear into the garage, then emerge with something in his hand. It hit the light as he approached, glinting, and Hiirou frowned.

"What are you doing?" His eyes widened a bit as the mechanic squatted down beside his bike, squinting, and he recognized the tool in the other man's hand to be a wrench. Duo slapped his thigh with it teasingly and smiled disarmingly.

"Lift up." He instructed. What the hell was he doing with that wrench? And why was Hiirou not kicking him away from his bike? His counterpart waited expectantly and the Asian reluctantly complied. Duo flashed him a rewarding grin and Hiirou sat stunned as the mechanic spent a good twenty seconds fiddling with something on the side of his bike. Hiirou was more than a little jumpy at the man's close proximity, but when the American sat back on his haunches, the motorcycle's engine sounded much smoother. "There," Duo said happily, rubbing the back of his wrench-hand across his forehead and accidentally smearing more axle grease across his face.

The delivery boy was honestly impressed. His engine had been whining like that for weeks now, and he hadn't been able to locate the source himself. Maybe Duo was every bit the mechanic that Wufei's had claimed him to be.... "How'd you do that?" he asked.

Duo stood, stretching, and this time Hiirou couldn't make himself turn away. It crossed his mind that he'd honestly like to see what the braided boy looked like out of that jumpsuit, but he shook it off in favor of his new found curiosity in just what Duo had done to his bike. "It's a secret," the mechanic replied coyly. Duo scratched his back with the wrench, that shit-eating grin firmly in-place. "Can't go around advertising tricks of the trade, now can I? That's why we're the best garage this side of Las Vegas." He yawned and leaned back against the chain-linked fence that encircled the lot, nodding at the other man's bike. "That's a Suzuki Hayabasu, right? A 2003?"

Hiirou nodded. "Right." It had been a present from his parents for receiving his bachelor's degree.

The mechanic smiled wistfully. "Yeah, my bro used to ride a Hayabasu. Fastest bike I've ever seen."

The Japanese youth was suddenly interested in more than just his new acquaintance. He'd never met another person who owned this bike. If there was someone in the area with some knowledge on it he'd have to go talk to him. "Does he really? Does he race?"

Duo's amethyst eyes grew dark, and his face lost its charming quality. He looked older somehow, and a lot more jaded. "I said 'used to'."

It was obviously a bad subject for the American. Hiirou wanted to know more, but it really wasn't his place to ask. He sighed and turned back to his bike, disappointment settling over him like a mantle. "Well, thanks," he mumbled.

Duo smiled again, seemingly back to the enthusiastic youth that Hiirou had met almost twenty minutes ago, but there was still something off about him, a hard edge to his eyes. "Sure thing. Bring that bike by sometime. I've got a few hard-to-come-by parts lying around."

The Japanese boy nodded and pulled out of the parking lot. For the first time since he'd left school, he found himself watching someone in his rear- view mirror the whole way up the street.

Hiirou's got some issues.


	3. RH 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Warning: Violence, language, possible mild religious themes, sexual situations

Notes: This chapter is for snowdragonct.

**Raising Hell 2**

brkstrtrcr

January 2009

Running deliveries was probably the best part of his job.

At first, he'd hated having to drive around town, trying to find his way to specific locations that he wasn't familiar with, but he had the town memorized now. Every address was a point on a mental map that he'd concocted, and he had gotten a few tips from Meiran about the side streets and shortcuts.

Meiran was an interesting person. She was one of the most dynamic females that Hiirou had ever run across, and he liked her. He seldom took a liking to people, but she'd found a place in his heart, just as Wufei and the girls had. They were just good people. Wufei was a family man, and although he seemed strict and very straight-laced, Hiirou would catch him playing insanely kiddish games with the twins, or yelling at the television from time to time. He'd even seen him engaged in a heated round of poker with Duo a while ago. They were all normal people, and while every family had its quirks, Hiirou wouldn't have traded the Changs for any other in the state.

Business had been steady lately, a constant stream of regulars, but most of their profit came from deliveries, and that's where Hiirou and his Hayabasu came in. It had started off as a bet between Wufei and Duo, but somewhere along the way the Blue Dragon Restaurant had picked up the reputation of having an order delivered in ten minutes or less. He'd never been late yet.

Half of this he owed to his own reckless driving, but most of the credit went to his bike. He'd had the Suzuki for almost three years now. It was a good piece of machinery; fast, efficient, and easy to repair. Duo had offered to do a few upgrades for him, but he'd tried to steer clear of the American mechanic since that incident at the garage a few weeks ago. If there was one thing that made the Japanese youth skittish, it was his own damnable habit of falling for people who would eventually stab him in the back, and letting his testosterone think for him.

Hiirou had made that mistake once, and he'd be damned if he was going to give someone else the opportunity. His view was a simple one--if he didn't develop any real attachments, it wouldn't hurt quite so much when his 'friends' fucked him over. To Hiirou, emotions were synonymous with pain. For the time being, the Changs were no real threat to him, but Duo on the other hand . . .

Hiirou accelerated around a turn, frowning as the outside of his calf almost skimmed the pavement, and gripped his handlebars with enough force to bend metal. He couldn't explain what he felt about Duo, but he was certain that he didn't like it. The guy was attractive, and amusing at best, but he seemed like the type to get what he wanted out of people and leave them without a backwards glance. He was the wrong type, the dangerous type, and Hiirou had a gut instinct that he would do anything the loudmouthed mechanic asked of him.

_Duo is the same caliber person as that asshole from school..._

_No._

Cobalt eyes glared at the road ahead. Rehashing bad memories would only serve to ruin his day, and it didn't accomplish anything. He had a job to do, and that was his primary objective. The Changs had given him a place to live, a line of work, and their trust. He couldn't let them down.

His watch told him that he had two minutes to find this address, so he scanned his surroundings and found himself in the uptown side of the area. The area was nice, a little too posh for his tastes, but it was quite a stark contrast to the east end where the restaurant was. Neatly landscaped lawns, color-coordinating mailboxes and siding, and at the end of the long residential neighborhood stood an impressive-looking building that he assumed was his location.

Wufei had told him that the place was a garage, the only other shop in the town, but he almost checked the address again. The building didn't look anything like Duo's junkyard. There was no chain-linked barbed wire fencing, no intimidating dogs, no lemons on cinderblocks on the sides of the establishment. No, this place was clean and well-maintenanced, and Hiirou wondered if Wufei was an idiot for bringing his car anywhere but here.

_No, there's got to be a reason, and a damned good one._

Hiirou toed his kickstand down, tugging his helmet off and leaving it on the bike's seat as he retrieved the order and made his way to the open main doors. As he approached he noticed that this place seemed a lot busier than Duo's garage. There was a group of around ten men standing inside the doorway, engaged in a low and heated conversation, and as soon as one of them noticed him they all rushed forward, blocking the entrance. "Whoa, just what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" someone demanded.

The Japanese youth put his hands up in a submissive gesture, backing out of the garage and stopped short when he felt his bike against his legs. "I'm here for a delivery. Sorry." Hiirou was a smart guy; whatever they had been discussing must have been important and obviously confidential, because they all looked uneasy, and the one who had snapped at him now stood at their center, glaring him down with annoyed reddish-brown eyes. He was of a slight build, slender, long-legged, and blonde, with a handsome enough face and a wicked sneer.

"You're late," he snarled, snatching the bag from Hiirou's hands and stalking around him like a lion on the prowl. The delivery boy didn't much care for playing the role of gazelle, so he stepped forward, returning the glare with experienced fervor.

"Actually I have ten seconds to spare," he retorted calmly, and the men around him exchanged looks.

The blonde chuckled coldly, extending his hand, a crisp twenty between gloved fingers. "Well, pal, take the money and scram. We've got better things to do with our time than chitchat with the lower class."

Perhaps it was the mocking tone, or maybe the guy's attitude in general that pissed Hiirou off, but some primal part of him felt the urge to rip this guy's arms off and beat him with them. He was being an asshole, and for no good reason that the Asian could decipher. He ground his teeth together to keep from speaking his mind, but it was a losing battle.

"Maybe if you took your head out of your ass and stopped acting like such a hotshot you'd have more time to talk." The more macho half of Hiirou's conscience applauded him.

His more reasonable self balked and then cried. Duo was definitely rubbing off on him and certainly not the way that Hiirou would have preferred. His mutinous conscience mocked him. Blondie stopped short and his face went from smug to livid in less time than it took for the Japanese youth to regret ever having responded. "You little shit, who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who's turf you're on?"

Hiirou honestly didn't know, but he wished that someone had told him sooner. Gang wars weren't his thing. "Are you going to tell me?" he drawled.

The leader of the group laughed outright, stepping into a proximity that Hiirou wasn't comfortable with. He reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and a mixture of pot and deodorant that the brunette hadn't smelled since college. "Look guys," he taunted, grinning. "Rice here doesn't know where he is."

_Okay, that was unnecessary._

"Maybe we should teach him to respect the authority on the upper end, eh?" Hiirou was so busy staring down the blonde in front of him that he missed the other lackey sidestep them both, and it wasn't until he heard the ear-splitting grate of metal on metal that he turned. His heart plunged to his stomach at what he saw. There was a long, jagged gash down the side of his Hayabasu, and the prick responsible was sitting on the black leather seat of his bike grinning like a maniac.

The silver paint was destroyed, and Hiirou felt his control snap.

"You're dead," he growled, lunging forward to tackle the man, but the blonde caught him around the middle and punched him in the shoulder blade, winding him just long enough to toss him to the ground and allow his accomplice to slink back towards the garage.

He knelt down beside Hiirou and smirked. "A little delivery boy like you doesn't know how to ride a bike like that, anyway. Don't cry," he snickered.

Hiirou picked himself up off of the ground and spat, pointing past the group to the bikes sitting inside the shop. Someone needed to bring this arrogant pricks down a notch, but Hiirou wasn't suicidal. He knew damned well that he was outnumbered. "Just because your parents bought you all cycles doesn't mean that you know how to ride," he growled threateningly.

That must have struck a chord with a few of the group, because they fell quiet, and Blondie stepped forward again, expression serious. "If you're so keen on your own skills, Rice, then meet me at the corner of Sixth and Ivy Street tonight at midnight. I'll show you how the pros race."

It was a stupid challenge, a hollow bet. It reminded Hiirou of all the times that his friends had 'double-dog dared' him to try retarded stunts on the playgrounds in elementary school. To accept such an insignificant deal would have been admitting that he felt the need to prove himself, but Hiirou was in a strange mood at the moment, so he nodded curtly in affirmation, turned on his heel, and mounted his bike, revving loudly as he peeled out of the driveway. He was halfway back to the restaurant when he realized that he'd forgotten the cash for the delivery.

"...You idiot! You're not turning my family's car into another of your projects!"

Wufei was shouting again, and that could only mean that Duo was in the restaurant. Hiirou had successfully avoided the braided mechanic until now, but he had more important things on his mind than his own traitorous body parts and that loudmouthed American. So he stalked past the table where Duo and his employer were arguing and into the kitchen. He missed the confused expression on the mechanic's face. The two followed shortly after him.

"Yui? What's wrong?" He turned away from the dishwasher to meet concerned chocolate eyes. Over Wufei's left shoulder Duo was leaning against the doorway idly, staring at the wall as if the cure for cancer lay within the tacky wallpaper. Absently, the Japanese youth realized that his long-haired counterpart must have caught on to the virtual cat and mouse game that he'd been playing these past few days, and he almost felt guilty.

Almost.

"That address you sent me to? Those assholes keyed my bike." The comment hung in the air for a moment before Wufei responded, and when he did he sounded very nervous.

"I'm sorry, Yui. Those guys have a bad history around here. I forgot to mention that to you before you left. I wouldn't mess with them if you aren't looking for serious trouble." Duo arched an eyebrow in response, snorting, and both Asians ignored him.

"He challenged me to a race." That got Duo's head to turn, and Meiran popped in from the dining room.

Before him, Wufei rubbed his eyes anxiously, shaking his head. "Bad idea. Just let it go, Yui. I'm telling you--"

"Oh, _fuck_ that!" Duo barged past both Changs and shoved Hiirou almost roughly. "You don't have to take shit off of those jerks! Whoop their asses, Hiirou!" There was something about the conviction in the man's amaryllis eyes, the anger in his voice that captivated Hiirou for a heartbeat. Duo obviously had experienced his own run-in with those bastards, and it made Hiirou feel a little more in-touch with the man.

Wufei sighed irritably, pushing the mechanic away. "Don't listen to that idiot. He'll get you killed." And Hiirou ripped his eyes away from Duo fuming on his behalf to meet the deathly serious expression on Wufei's sharp features. There was something about the way he'd emphasized those words...

_He'll get you killed._

"...You don't know what you're getting yourself into. Meiran!" The Chinese man turned to his wife. "Talk some sense into him!" He wandered out of the kitchen, grumbling.

The woman smiled, shaking her head, and gave Hiirou a knowing, conspiratorial look. "Wufei's right. It's dangerous, and they aren't the best of people." She raised her voice loudly enough to be overheard through the paper-thin walls of the restaurant and winked rakishly at Hiirou. "Besides, my husband would _never _stand up for himself by taking that guy on." She counted down from three on her fingers silently while speaking, and sure enough, Wufei came bursting back into the kitchen on cue.

"Woman, what are you talking about! Of course I'd race that jackass if they challenged me! I have honor!" The man really was easy to bait and completely predictable.

Duo and Meiran gave the Chinese man triumphant smiles, and he deflated with a half-hearted growl of annoyance. "Fine, you two win." He turned back to the newest addition to their family. "Race him if you want to. But don't say that I didn't warn you! We can't afford to lose another delivery boy..."

"You're not coming with me."

Duo looked almost wounded, but Hiirou refused to respond to the hurt look in those beautiful indigo eyes. The American wasn't going to get his way on this one. This was something that Hiirou needed to take care of on his own, but the mechanic just wouldn't listen. "I won't get in the way, I promise!" He was pleading his case quietly, but their was an edge of desperation in his voice that Hiirou had never heard there before. "I just wanna make sure they don't try and jump you or anything."

The thought of needing 'backup' was almost comical to the Japanese youth. He was going to a street race, not a death match. Why was Duo being so damned hard-headed about this. "I'll be fine," he replied.

The mechanic looked as if he wanted to argue, but Hiirou didn't give him the opportunity. He kicked up his bike's stand and sped off towards his destination. Some treacherous part of his mind half-hopes the braided idiot would follow. Truth be told, he was a little nervous about this rendezvous with the uptown garage. Once they found out that he wasn't just a delivery boy with a smart mouth they'd probably employ any means necessary to ensure that they didn't lose this race. These guys were all about cheating, breaking the rules, and playing dirty. Of that Hiirou was certain. The real question was whether he would be quick enough to catch on to their tricks before they caused him to crash.

The Japanese youth thought this over the entire way up Main Street, and as he turned the streetlamp-spotted corners to the neighborhood they'd chosen, he found himself glancing at his rear-view mirrors every so often. Duo was no where in sight.

"This is how the race'll go down," a tall redhead was shouting from his perch atop the abandoned restaurant across the street. Hiirou had never seen this man before, but the ease with which he walked along the roof's safety wall spoke volumes of his familiarity with the place. He'd obviously done this before. "You guys drive up Sixth and make a left on Maple Street. Follow it down to the Fire Station, swing another left, and then work your way up to the south end of Ivy. First person to wipe out loses. First person back to the checkpoint wins." The redhead's easy tone turned serious suddenly and he stopped, gazing down at the gathered racers like a village elder upon the masses. "At the first sign of the cops, it's every man for himself. We split, and the person closest to the checkpoint is the winner. No exceptions."

Hiirou didn't much like the idea of running from the cops, but the guy had a point. They were already breaking the law; if he stopped he'd get arrested. If he ran, however, it was evading arrest, but he knew that he could get away. "Get ready."

He walked his way to the starting line that had been hastily scribbled on the pavement with what appeared to be sidewalk chalk, and checked his gauges. Beside him, Blondie was talking trash to his friends, and Hiirou decided that he definitely didn't like the knowing smiles they were giving each other. Something was up.

"Hey, Blondie."

The man in question looked up and grinned smugly at him. "Any last words, Rice?"

Hiirou forced a tight smile and chuckled. "No, I'd like to up the ante."

The other men grew quiet, interested, and Hiirou shrugged. "How about this; if I win, you pay to replace the paint job on my bike?"

With a barking laugh, the blonde nodded. "That's a good one. Okay, Rice. If you win I'll give that crotch-rocket of yours a brand new coat of paint. But when I win I'm expecting pork-fried rice everyday for the next month. Got it?" His friends laughed at Hiirou's expense and traded high- fives. "Let's get this bullshit over with." The man who'd been issuing rules moments ago stepped forward from some unseen fire escape on the side of the restaurant.

"On my signal." The redhead stood between their bikes, and started counting down from five.

_This is the stupidest thing I've done in a very long time__._

"...One. Go!" The redhead made a loud whistling sound, and Hiirou gunned his engine.

The course had been a straight-shot, and until the final left turn back onto Ivy, everything had gone well. His bike was handling as smooth as always, and he'd given the leader of the garage a run for his money. That had been until, of course, the other garage members had thrown broken beer bottles into the street and damned near shredded his front tire. Now he was angry, and with every acceleration he made he was cursing that blonde son-of-a-bitch with everything in him.

The asshole in question was only two feet ahead of him and accelerating, so Hiirou decided to throw caution to the wind and do the only thing he could think of to keep from having to deliver rice to that garage for the next thirty-one days straight. He rammed the jerk's back tire with his torn front one, and almost cackled when the other bike spun out, throwing its rider and falling into a smoking heap on the side of the road. Blondie shouted and cursed behind him, and Hiirou took the time to flip him the bird as he drove towards the checkpoint at a leisurely pace.

When he got to the checkpoint on Ivy Street, the garage group looked shocked. Perhaps it was the fact that their broken glass antics had failed, or maybe it was the idea that a delivery boy from the wrong side of town had beaten their leader, but they all seemed to sober up fairly quickly. Hiirou resisted the urge to laugh once again. "I believe you owe me a new paint job?"

The redhead paused, smirking, and cleared his throat. "You beat him." _Thank you, Captain Obvious._ Their race expert must not have been affiliated with the uptown garage. Hiirou filed that information away for a later date. The Japanese youth nodded, pulling his helmet off, and he looked past the men to find a very proud-looking Duo leaned against an older-model Chevrolet Camaro. The mechanic flashed him a thumbs-up before walking up behind the garage jerks and snickering. "You can just hand the money over to me, losers. I'll be taking care of the paint."

Hiirou fought down the urge to grin, although he knew that Duo's big mouth was going to land them in a world of shit. For now he didn't care. He'd forgotten how good it felt to race, and to win, and he'd missed it.

"Give him the money and let's get the hell out of here." One of the men handed Duo an obscene amount of cash and turned to walk off, and the braided youth squawked in indignation.

"Whattarya, Jewish?! There isn't enough here to buy a case of spray paint!"

The man glared at the much smaller youth and raised a fist. "Punk, you'd better get the hell out of my face--"

"Or what?" Duo cut in. He stepped up to the man, pushing his sleeves up, but before Hiirou could intervene, he'd already taken a swing at the other male. By the time he'd dismounted his bike, the guy had caught the punch easily and had Duo practically dangling from his grip.

"Rice, you'd better keep your little bitch in check before something happens to him," he grinned, tossing the mechanic to the street like a rag doll.

Duo hit the asphalt with a sickening crunch, and Hiirou winced. "Excuse me?" He snapped, patience worn thin. His overwhelming--and entirely unwanted--need to go check on the American was currently outweighed by the need to convey superiority over the garage members now surrounding him. "Look, we'll take the money and be on our way, if that's all right."

He was ready for a brawl, but he'd have rather avoided one if possible. Hiirou had definitely exceeded his quota of illegal activity for the night, and a backwards glance over his shoulder confirmed that the illustrious mechanic would be of absolutely no assistance in the matter. Duo was curled up on the asphalt groaning as he clutched his stomach.

"Your friend needs to learn to keep his pie-hole shut. If you think you're that great, then you won't mind racing me and the rest of my crew. We'll send you the information." The rival garage member gave him a disgusted look and gestured at his Hayabusa. "Just fix that shitty paint-job, Rice."

They dispersed at that, and Hiirou was left standing in the middle of Ivy Street, glaring down at a semi-conscious Duo. He growled angrily, fists clenched, and watched the braided idiot roll idly on the pavement in pain. "This is all _your _fault!" he snarled.

Duo really needs to learn to keep his mouth shut...


	4. RH 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Warning: Violence, language, possible mild religious themes, sexual situations.

Notes: College is kicking my ass, hence the slow update.

**Raising Hell 3**

brkstrtrcr

February 2010

Two days after the race everything had returned to normal at the Blue Dragon Restaurant.

Wufei was out back mowing the lawn while Meiran took the girls to school, and Hiirou found himself standing in the kitchen for yet another morning of food preparation and produce orders. Before that first unofficial race, his life had seemed content enough, but now every chore that he took on seemed so menial, so pointless. He'd forgotten what it felt like to get on his bike, gun his engine, and let his adrenaline take over, and now that he'd been submersed in that temporary euphoria once more everyday tasks seemed so mundane.

But he had a job to do, and he set to it with a conviction borne of preoccupation. The knife in his hands sliced cleanly and expertly through its target without thought, and Hiirou mulled over his current situation.

No one had openly mentioned the race since that night, though Meiran would make the occasional odd comment in reference, and Wufei seemed a little preoccupied with the other garage lately. He'd caught the Chinese man and Duo in heated discussions in the dining room at all hours of the night, recently.

_Speaking of Duo..._

The mechanic had been livid with him after the altercation with the uptown garage members. He'd claimed to have been 'sticking up for Hiirou' when he'd smarted off to the men, but the Japanese youth knew better.

The braided idiot just had a knack for causing trouble. It followed him around like a damned rain cloud and Hiirou preferred to steer clear of any potential storms brewing in that moron's head. He'd been avoiding prolonged contact with his violet-eyed counterpart after their first meeting, anyway. No, he felt more than justified in his attitude of moderated tolerance of the boy.

"Yo, Hiirou! There's something in the mail for you!"

It was just that no matter how hard he tried to be hostile with the mechanic, Duo shrugged it off and came back for more. It was like living next door to an abused spouse. The long-haired young man came barreling into the kitchen, a confused look on his handsome face, and Hiirou wanted to scream in frustration. Even when the mechanic was raiding Hiirou's mail he was attractive. What the fuck?!

"It's a Christmas card," Duo mumbled. He handed the green and red envelope to Hiirou. "Who the hell sends a Christmas card in October?"

The Japanese youth tried to shrug nonchalantly, mentally cursing his traitorous mind, and opened the envelope with a frown on his lips. When he pulled the card out, Duo snorted, obviously unamused.

It was a generic holiday greeting card, the cheap, thoughtless type sold at convenience stores, and it featured a tacky reindeer image on the front. Scrawled across it in permanent black marker were the words, "Merry Christmas, Fags!"

"Nice," Duo growled from behind him, and Hiirou decided to overlook the not-so-festive greeting, opening the card. Inside, he found a folded map of the more metropolitan area of their town. A section of the streets had been highlighted. The note inside the card read, "Starting point: Starbucks on Fifth Avenue. 1AM, Sunday. BYOB."

Hiirou paused at that last part. "Bring your own beer?" he asked, turning to Duo. The mechanic was fuming.

"No, stupid. Bring your own _bitch_." The Japanese youth still looked confused, so the other boy elaborated. "It's a racing term. A 'bitch' is a derogatory term for your mechanic. Your engine tech. The guy that makes your bike go 'vroom,'" he snarled. He waited for the delivery boy to catch on, but Hiirou still looked quite perplexed. What in the name of speedometers did bitches have to do with anything, and where was he supposed to acquire one? Duo groaned and stared at Hiirou incredulously. "_Me!_" he shouted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and Hiirou was mentally handicapped for not having grasped the concept. Then he threw his hands up in disgust and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Hiirou to ponder over how Duo had become his new mechanic. Sure, the guy had touched his bike and not lost a limb or two, but that didn't make him Hiirou's technician. _That just makes him a special case because you want to bend him over your bike and--_

Hiirou growled under his breath and shook his head viciously to clear his thoughts. This was getting a little ridiculous. That braided nimrod would be the death of him... He removed the map from the card, glancing over it again quickly before tucking it into his back pocket. As he turned to toss the envelope and card into the trash bin he noticed one more line written sloppily inside the card.

"Reward for winner is one grand."

Hiirou's eyes widened at the figure.

This racing business was looking to be both dangerous _and _lucrative.

The city was quiet as Hiirou sat listening to the referee of the races.

He could hear distant, faint traffic noises, but the coffee shop across the street from them was dark, as were the office buildings that loomed twenty or so stories over them. To his left Duo stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, and from under the ducked brim of the hat Hiirou saw the glowing orange cherry of a cigarette burning. Hiirou had never known him to smoke before tonight. The mechanic was in a foul mood, but it kept him from talking the Japanese youth's ear off, so he supposed he'd let it go for now.

On Duo's other side, the idiot with the temper from the last race was sitting on his bike, pretending to snore as their 'ref' gave instructions. He didn't recognize this new guy, but he seemed fairly level-headed, and he certainly wasn't favoring one team over the other, thus far. Then again, he could have just been luring them into a false sense of security. Hiirou sighed. He still couldn't remember why he'd decided to race again, but he supposed that he'd probably had a fairly good reason. Probably.

More than likely, Hiirou had simply contracted whatever degenerative brain-wasting disease Duo had.

"Here's how this is gonna work. On my signal you two start, and you'll follow the course highlighted on the maps. If you forget where to turn, we've got you covered." Another young man behind the ref stood up with a brightly-colored band poster and held it up for everyone to see.

"We pinched these out of the local concert hall. We've posted them on the corresponding side of each street where you need to turn. Right now we've got a decoy running up and down the course, so as soon as I get the all-clear we'll start the race."

Hiirou reached out and grabbed Duo's arm, ignoring the annoyed look he received and tugging him over.

"What's a decoy?" he inquired in a hushed tone.

The American rolled his eyes. "A decoy is another bike or car that runs the course about half an hour before you do. They use him to keep the local law enforcement preoccupied. He leads the cops away from the course and leaves it clear for the race." Then Duo pulled unceremoniously away from him and stalked off into the shadows.

Hiirou rolled his own eyes and considered this business of employing decoys. That idea was pretty smart. If they didn't distract the cops, the races would be over in minutes, because in a small town like this one the police were everywhere. There was simply nothing better for them to do than hassle young kids out on the streets at night.

"All right, techs. Check your opponent's bike so we can start."

Hiirou shifted nervously as a greasy-looking guy slumped down beside his bike to check for any special features that might give him an unfair advantage in the race. He snorted wryly. _As if racing against this garage isn't a big enough disadvantage..._

Across the street, Duo was kneeling down beside the redhead's bike, cigarette between his teeth, giving the other guy a hard time. "You wanna get that damned cigarette away from my ride?"

Duo arched an eyebrow, blowing a large cloud of grey smoke into the other man's face and smirking. "Not particularly." He stood, dusting his knees off, and flashed their ref a thumbs-up.

"Listen up," their mediator collapsed his cellular phone and nodded. "The cops are taken care of. We've got them halfway across town, so let's get this party started. On my signal."

Hiirou revved his engine, feeling a lot more confident than he had at that first race. He realized that these subsequent face-offs were all-important to the hierarchy of the uptown garage--Duo had taken to calling them the "Jets", a joke from an old American musical.

These current races determined who would assume leadership of the garage, and Hiirou was the test. He guessed that the first man to beat him in these races would replace Blondie as head of their circle. Unfortunately for the jackasses' power struggles, he had no intention of losing, any time soon.

Zechs Merquise was bored. He'd been sitting outside his favorite diner for nearly an hour, trying to decide whether he wanted to eat or simply call it a night and go home, when a black Nissan Maxima had flown down the street beside the diner, a group of squad cars in hot pursuit. Zechs had flung the door to his Celica open, grabbing his radio and calling in to dispatch to see if the officers needed assistance, but he was off-duty so the woman had told him more or less to stay out of it.

Minutely heartbroken, the officer had slumped over his open car door, radio in-hand, and his night was beginning to look like a total waste, when from around the corner the roaring of engines had echoed through the empty parking lot almost twenty minutes later, and for a moment he wondered if the Maxima was just leading the police cars around in a circle. Instead, he watched as a silver motorcycle with a jagged scratch down one side came barreling down the road, a blue bike close behind it. They were operating at dangerously high speeds, and Zechs suddenly felt like a kid in a candy store.

Chuckling, he jumped into his car and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind him. "0136 to dispatch," he practically sung into his radio, jerking his steering wheel sharply to keep up with the much more agile bikes , all the while fumbling with his seat belt. "Be advised, I've got two import bikes in my sight traveling on Seventh Avenue at speeds in excess of seventy miles per hour. Standby for plate numbers."

The guy behind him had to be a cop.

Hiirou mulled this over as he made a hard left, trying to keep up with the other racer, but at these speeds one of them was going to total. He fell back just a bit and tried to find a way to ditch the Celica that was practically up his ass. He wasn't coming up with anything useful. Swearing, he sped up. This guy was fucking crazy. Maybe if he drove a little more recklessly the cop would have no choice but to fall back. The problem with that idea was that the car behind him was definitely not a police vehicle, and from the hissing noises it made every time the transmission shifted, it probably wasn't even street legal. It was definitely a cop though, because from his side view mirrors Hiirou could see the man talking into a radio. This was decidedly not a good situation. Wasn't that damned decoy supposed to prevent shit like this from happening?

Beside him, the redheaded racer looked pretty confident, and it struck Hiirou then that those garage assholes had probably prepared for this kind of thing. Sure enough, the blue bike veered down a side alley, driving up a metal ramp and into the back of a moving van that had been waiting there for him. A few of the uptown garage members pulled down the back gate on the van and effectively hid the bike from view. "Son of a bitch," Hiirou sighed. He was losing his patience and now this crazy bastard in the Celica only had one target.

Things weren't looking good for Hiirou.

The Japanese youth glanced down at his gauges. He was almost forty over the speed limit. That added up to speeding, reckless driving, public endangerment, and racketeering if they could prove he was engaged in criminal behavior for profit. His options were to either pull over and spend the next decade of his life as jail bait in some shitty Nevada prison or try to outrun the cop and add evading arrest to his list of possible convictions. It was a split-second decision. but Hiirou made it and swerved between two slower moving vehicle to escape his pursuer.

The Celica avoided a near-accident, bypassing the cars, and was back on his tail.

_Time for more drastic measures_. There was an interstate exit less than one hundred yards away. Gritting his teeth, the Japanese youth drove his bike over the solid yellow line in the center of the street, directly into oncoming traffic, and prayed that the cop wouldn't dare to follow him. For a moment all Hiirou could see was the headlights of an opposite-bound truck, and the blare of the other driver's terrified horn echoed deafeningly inside his helmet. He barely made it around the other vehicle in time, turning onto the entrance ramp for the highway so sharply that he could have sworn the outside of his right leg brushed the asphalt. His hands were shaking as they gripped his handlebars, white-knuckled, and his rapid breathing was fogging up the inside of his visor. When Hiirou caught his breath enough to get his wits about him he checked his side view mirrors again, dreading to see the silhouette of that damned Celica still dogging his every move, but there was nothing behind him besides pitch-black pavement and the dark Nevada night sky. The silver car was no where in sight.


End file.
